


That I Would Be Good

by mona1347, poisontaster



Series: Sex Pollen [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Dirty Talk, Dominance, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rimming, Sex Pollen, Sibling Incest, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-02
Updated: 2006-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-25 05:38:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4948717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mona1347/pseuds/mona1347, https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>How many, Dean?</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	That I Would Be Good

"How many?" Sam's voice is deceptively calm, only the faint break at the end betraying him.

Dean turns his face into the pillow, shuddering, sobbing as Sam spreads him open and dips in wetly with his tongue again. Jesus, _again_. Dean's hands are fisted in the sheets so hard he thinks he's going to break the bones. He doesn't know what to answer. No answer so far has satisfied.

"How many, Dean? How many have been here before me, touching you, fucking you? How many men have had this sweet ass before me?" Dean shakes as Sam's tongue is replaced by a light, speculative fingertip circling and circling.

"None," Dean cries/screams/whispers. "No one." It's not the first time he's said it. But Sam keeps asking. Keeps fucking him with the soft-hard thickness of his tongue until Dean's afraid he's just going to go completely insane, because it's such a fucking _tease_ and Sam keeps _asking_ and he won't let Dean come. The burnt-orange smell and hazy, incorporeal feel of the pollen saturates the air, seems to swirl around Sam like dust motes in sunlight.

"How many?" Sam asks again, his palm rolling over Dean's ass cheek, kneading.

"No one... Sammy. I swear. No one. Only... not this. Not like this. Just with you...now. The first…"

Another flat, tantalizing wet sweep, not inside this time, but just over, so that Dean can feel every nerve ending quiver. "I want to believe you, Dean. I do." God, he can _feel_ Sam smile against him. "And you know I'll know, Dean. I'll know as soon as I slip inside you. I'll know if you're tight. Unused."

"I swear, Sam, I swear...just...please..."

"Should I check? I'll be angry if you lie."

"No...not lying. I swear." Dean's face grows even redder but he's strangely proud,strangely exultant that he can give this to Sam. That he has nothing to hide. That he's somehow pure for Sam. It's been a long time since he's felt pure in any sense of the word.

"You understand why this is important, right? You know that this..." A twist this time and deeper than any previous thrust of his tongue. Dean yelps, his hips trying to flex off the mattress and going nowhere, framed and weighted by Sam's hands. "...this is mine. I don't share well, Dean."

"I said," Dean insists, trying to wriggle, trying for _more_ even as Sam's hands—curled around his cheeks _and_ hips—push flat. He hisses as his cock grinds into the sheets. He can't even tell if it hurts or feels good. "I _said_...just you. Please, oh Sam, oh God..."

"You act like I don't know you, Dean. What a flirt you are. What a _slut_ you are." Tongue _and_ finger now, thrusting deep and slow in tandem, curling around each other, around him. Dean moans. It feels like he doesn't have a single molecule, a single thought, not centered on the taut, tight, slick stretch of his ass, completely laid out and bare.

"I know that pretty mouth of yours has been wrapped around more cocks than just mine. It's actually kinda obvious, Dean, good at it as you are. Straight-As in cocksucking, big brother. You must have had some practice." Dean groans, stomach twisting in time to the thrust-slide of tongue-and-finger. "So it's no surprise that I wonder about your ass, too. And you know how I hate it when you lie to me."

Oh God. Oh _God_. "M'not lying. I... _fuck_. Not saying I've never been with _anybody_. But not that. Never...never _under_..." He doesn't have the brain cells for this, to create some sort of defense. How could Sam possibly think he's capable of _lying_ right now? Worse, he doesn't even want to. He wants to confess every stupid, slutty, fucked up, fucked out encounter he's ever had. Dean wants to prove himself, wants to be so good for Sam. Wants to show him that he did the right thing, that he waited for... oh _fuck_ …

Sam pushes his finger in deeper, crooking it, and Dean's vision whites out. He's brainless, helpless. "In me, do it, fuck, Sammy. Please. I swear, fuck me, fuck me please and you'll know. You'll know I'm yours."

"You _are_ tight. Jesus. So fucking tight. So hot. I didn't know you'd be this hot, Dean." Sam's other hand roams Dean's skin, touching, pinching, fondling, pulling Dean back tighter against him, onto his hand. So deep. Fuck.

Dean's babbling, he's hopelessly babbling and he'd do anything, _anything_ for Sam to fuck him; to know Dean's just for him and to croon at him in pleasure and pride. And maybe he's wrong. Maybe Sam _isn't_ the only one dosed, because Dean can't control anything, not his trembling muscles, not his breath and certainly not the stream of words that tumbles out of his mouth, "Yes. Yeah. Sam. Tight for you. You're makin' me so fuckin' hot. Just for you..."

Sam moans, the first sign that his control is fracturing, that this means something, _anything_ to him too, other than the mind-bending influence of the pollen. "God. Oh God. Dean... C'mon. Not here. Not like this. I want to bend you. I want to fuck you raw. Show you."

Dean is malleable, soft everywhere except the aching hardness of his cock, as Sam pulls and tugs and pushes him. Off the bed. Towards the dresser. "There. I want you there. I want you to put your hands down flat and don't move them again until I tell you."

Dean's legs shake so that he doesn't know if he can hold himself upright as Sam manhandles him across the small room, locks hands around his arms and plants his palms down on the wood, smooth then suddenly rough in places, cratered like the surface of an unprotected planet. But he does it, mewls and spreads for Sam, pressing his hands flat and tight against the dresser, ready. Ready to be fucked, ready to _show_ Sam.

"You can do this," Sam says, as if he's sensed Dean's thought. "It's going to be okay." Dean nods, shivering as Sam nibbles and gnaws at his throat with searing lips, spreading Dean's legs wide and forcing his chest down. "Everything'll be okay once I'm inside you."

The words are so quiet Dean's not even sure Sam can hear him, "Yes. _Sammy_."

"Good." Sam's fingers slip into him again, easier this time. Now that he's fucked open. "So good."

Good. Sammy says he's good. If he does good, if he does it right, does the right thing, Sam will... Sam will... He says Dean is _good_.

"Tell me," Sam whispers, that drunk-rough tone still in his voice. He's thrusting against Dean's hip in time with the movement of his fingers, undulations like waves, threatening to drown. "Tell me. How you like it. Tell me it's good, baby. Tell me you want this."

"Sam..." Dean's voice fails him, cracking like he's still in puberty.

Sam slides out of him, takes a step back, leaving Dean open and aching. "Tell me," he says again, inflexible.

So Dean does. Talking--rambling, babbling, really--in the cracked out and broken voice he hardly recognizes. How much he wants it, wants Sam, wants to be held down and held up and fucked until he's blind and boneless. How good it feels, how good he wants Sam to feel, in him. How he'll do anything, anything Sam wants him to. He'll do it any way Sam wants.

Dean puts his head down, hands still flat on the dresser--just like Sammy told him—while Sam runs one big hand flat down Dean's spine, grips Dean's hip, aligns himself and finally—oh God, _finally_ —enters him in one long, excruciatingly slow thrust. Dean cries out, his chest and stomach trembling. Sam bites down on the nape of Dean's neck as he fucks Dean wide open, making Dean take and cradle him, deep deep inside.

It hurts, oh God it burns like he's splitting open and it's so so fucking good, so immediate. It's real and now and Dean is shaking _all over_. Sam is saying, "Ah, Dean. So fucking good. Oh God, so tight. Told me the truth, tight for me, just for _me_. Mine. You're mine, Dean. All mine. Fuck. Fuck your tight ass, is it good? Do you like it?"

He only knows two words. Just two. Just _yes_ and _Sammy_ , but they come out of him like his tears, helpless and infinite in number, especially as Sam kicks his legs a little wider, pushes him down a little further and sinks a little deeper, curving right into a spot that makes Dean lose even those two last words. They fill his mind, though, big as the sky. Just... _Sam_ and _yes_. So much _yes_.

"Love you," Sam chants raggedly against Dean's ear, only loud enough for the two of them. "Love your whore's mouth and your... _ah_...ass like a silk glove and I love the way you feel around me and I love..." Sam's hips slam hard pushing Dean into the wood. Dean can't even whimper, breathless with pleasure, with pain, with the heat that seems to enclose them both in a singular cocoon. "Love you, Dean. Love you so much. Wanna be in you forever."

Dean focuses on his hands, spread wide as the rest of him on the pitted pseudo-wood. He focuses on the deep rocking of Sam's cock inside him, shattering him apart on its length. But in the vestigial part of his brain that's not down in his dick, Dean wonders how long the effects of the pollen last. Wonders how long _he_ can last. Wonders if Sam's words are a promise or a threat.

Wonders if he cares.


End file.
